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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171968">birds of prey</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira'>xathira</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beacember 2020 [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon &amp; Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Beacember 2020, Bluebell - Freeform, Dirt - Freeform, F/F, the girls team up to Edelwood some victims, what if Beatrice and Lorna had their curses broken before the boys showed up?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:35:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171968</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Beatrice and Lorna are a team: they work to drag souls into Edelwood for their lord the Beast.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Done for the Beacember 2020 prompt: "dirt"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beatrice/Lorna (Over the Garden Wall)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beacember 2020 [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>birds of prey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Credit to Whiggity for coming up with Lorna's "code name."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beatrice used to be cursed, but not anymore.  She decided that if she was going to forge a deal with anyone, it’d be the most powerful bastard in the Unknown—not some wheedling witch with a pair of embroidery snips—so one day she found the Beast and put her soul on the line.  Her humanity for her labor.  Her freedom for a favor.  The Beast agreed to banish her wings, and in exchange all the once-hexed girl needed to do was help him hunt… not to kill or trap his prey herself, merely to set up the lambs for the slaughter.  A method to tip the scales in his advantage.  </p>
<p>“I look forward to working with you, Bluebird,” the Horned Lord had murmured, impressed by the fearless young lady and her brash determination.  He’d brushed a claw-tipped thumb over her freckled cheek, painting a comet-tail of obsidian.  Though shadows hid his unholy mask, the smile in his voice edged through like a blade beneath a sheath of velvet.  “You may walk freely in my forest.  All my bounties are your bounties.  Your blood is my blood.”</p>
<p>Beatrice, finally satisfied that she’d saved herself <i>and</i> her family, had smiled back.  The ink under her left eye tingled on her skin like an icy poultice of mint; power percolated into her skin and suffused her veins, slivers of the Beast’s power eating away the last scabs of her feather-borne curse.  She belonged to him now… yet they did not stand together as master and servant.  Her eyes met voids of searing light without flinching; his approval of her felt more like that of a doting grandfather or proud mentor than that of an eldritch monster gloating over yet another underling in his flock.  </p>
<p>“I hope I don’t disappoint you,” she replied smoothly.  As long as it kept her loved ones safe, she would sacrifice any stranger unlucky enough to cross her path.</p>
<p>And she does.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵</p>
</div>Lorna used to be cursed, but not anymore.  Her adoptive auntie took her into the woods after a particularly violent feast; Lorna was swaddled like a babe, gore-plastered limbs folded tight to her trembling body, and she’d been delirious with bloodlust.  After her victims had been reduced to gristle and bone the poor girl had turned her teeth on <i>herself</i>—seeking more flesh to feed the bottomless hunger shredding her guts—and the witch that watched over her knew only one person could save her.<p>Well… not a <i>person.</i></p>
<p>The Beast had glanced at the shivering orphan laid down at his feet and inclined his crown: intrigued.  “A sacrifice?” he’d asked the witch known as Whispers.</p>
<p>“A precious heart,” Whispers had argued.  “Help her,  Dark One.  I would do anything you bid, as long as you eased her suffering.”</p>
<p>Talons formed of branches brushed the girl’s sweat-damp hair from her brow.  He’d studied her wildly rolling eyes, the rapid panting of her breath, and uttered a growl of approval.  “Would she be as obedient, Swamp Witch?”</p>
<p>“Spare her,” begged Whispers.  </p>
<p>“I could <i>use</i> her,” the Beast insisted, sleekly persuasive, shadows growing blacker where he stood.  “I will take the savagery that ails her, and forge it into a weapon.  She will control it… it will not control her.”</p>
<p>The witch had bowed her head, muttering the child’s name with sorrowful tenderness.  The Beast had cupped Lorna’s face in his hands; oil welled at his bark-plated fingertips like sap bleeding from a tree; he’d marked the girl with midnight, striping her face like that of a tiger.  </p>
<p>Lorna had shuddered into awareness, choking on the syrupy thickness of blood in her throat and on her tongue, and wept at the abrupt clarity that forbade her to hide from her sins.  The Beast had shushed her in a timbre that resonated in roots and in her marrow.  “You’ll never kill unless you desire it, little Nightjar.  Clarity is yours… so long as you come when I have need of you.”</p>
<p>The girl nodded frantically, leaning into his touch.  If she could keep her own mind, she’d hunt for him whenever he asked it of her.</p>
<p>And she does.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵</p>
</div>Bluebird meets Nightjar.  They realize they work for the same deadly savior.  Their friendship is fast and fierce and frightening, for they quickly understand that they hunt better together than alone—and the more souls they reap for the Beast, the more strength they gain for themselves.<p>The Bluebird is bold.  She can take the sky-feathered shape that used to be her prison at will, and uses her clever smallness to spy on those most vulnerable to the Edelwood’s grasp.  She acts as an insidious guide, bullying the confused and helpless into digging their own graves.  Somehow, no one ever sees her inevitable betrayal coming… she burns too brightly for them to notice the roots around their ankles until it is too late.  The Bluebird scoffs at them as if they deserve their fates.  Maybe they do.</p>
<p>The Nightjar is gentle.  She walks beside her victims as if to show them the way home, allaying their fears of a haunting song that booms in the distance.  When they startle, she takes their hands and whispers encouragement with an expression so comforting that starvation and frostbite melt from their minds like sugar on their tongues.  Fear is forgotten.  So is the home they miss.  They usually fall asleep with her watching over them, snuggling into their new roots as though thankful for the sleep.</p>
<p>When two young boys show up in the woods—far more adrift than any soul that came before them—the Birds ponder among themselves how to proceed.</p>
<p>“The oldest looks like a damn pushover,” Beatrice jeers, perched in her bluebird form on Lorna’s shoulder.  “Give me a week, and he’ll fold like a southern debutant’s fan.”</p>
<p>Lorna’s sable eyes observe the pair of lads from the cover of a hawthorn’s scarlet leaves; the poor dears are hungry and weak, leaning against the trunk of a white oak to rest their weary feet.  Even from here, she can hear the little one’s chatter like the burble of spring birdsong… <i>that</i> one will be difficult to snare.</p>
<p>“Should we spare the younger brother?” Lorna muses, stroking Beatrice’s head absently.  “His soul gleams so wonderfully… I hate to snuff it out.”</p>
<p>“Are you going soft?” Beatrice teases.  Her beak tugs on a strand of Lorna’s hair until the Nightjar laughs and nudges that pesky beak away.</p>
<p>“No, I’m not!  I am simply… considering.  It might not be hard to separate the two… that elder one is half gone already.  I can smell it.”</p>
<p>Beatrice hums playfully.  “You wanna eat him?”</p>
<p>“I do <i>not!”</i> Lorna whisper-shrieks, bubbly—and has to muffle her laughter behind her hand when the elder boy in question suddenly straightens where he sits as if he caught the sinister ululation of coyotes on the air.  Oh, poor thing… the Nightjar can practically feel the pitter-patter of his terrified heartbeat in her palm.  </p>
<p>The Edelwood desires him most of all.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵</p>
</div>Lorna and Beatrice have a good cop/bad cop routine that they call “Iron Fist and Velvet Glove.”  Beatrice acts as the—no surprise—Iron Fist, the one that hammers their targets relentlessly until they are too mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted to resist what’s going to happen to them.  She’s gotten clever with her role over the seasons; her undermining comes off as exasperated extortion, tricking people into second-guessing themselves until they have no idea which way is up.  When victims waver at their limit, the Bluebird is there to push them harder, farther, <i>faster,</i> sewing terror of the ever-approaching Beast into their tattered minds.  Hers is a tactic of merciless attrition.  She is a shark in a delicate blue body.<p>Lorna’s signature Velvet Glove technique prevents their prey from breaking too quickly.  She finds them at the fulcrum of the Bluebird’s work and rebalances them, refreshes them… so that their fall is ultimately more tragic.  A single warm meal, snuck when the Bluebird supposedly isn’t watching, makes their remaining barren nights ache all the more painful.  A compassionate smile and consolation sharpen their fear into starker relief.  Nightjar and Bluebird play like this—back and forth, like kittens batting balls of yarn between them—and are nearly unstoppable.</p>
<p>The Beast praises their efforts passionately, rewarding the young ladies with delicious boons and incredible freedoms that none of the witches he employs will ever savor.  Because of his Birds, the Unknown’s forests are planted with graves that stand grander and more resplendent than all those he had to cultivate himself.  He kisses Lorna’s knuckles and claps Beatrice on the back like a prized son.  “Brilliant,” he calls them, triple-ringed eyes blazing with exultation.  “My brilliant, brilliant girls.” </p>
<p>Their plan ticks away like clockwork.  Beatrice calculates that their time to strike is near… but her math is a little off.      </p>
<p>It’s raining one day, the sky such a dark and dismal shade of soot that it’s impossible to tell whether it is morning, noon, or night.  The brothers are soaked to the bone.  They haven’t eaten in three days.  The younger is wrapped in his older brother’s cloak—as if that will protect him from the chill bruising his lips blue.  The older is squaring up against Beatrice, hysterical and hot with fever and fury.  Neither Beatrice nor Lorna have ever seen him in such a tempestuous state; they’d never dreamed he <i>could</i> be this way.</p>
<p>“We’re going in circles!” he cries, hands balled into shaking fists at his sides.  He’s not wrong; Beatrice had been intentionally “scouting ahead” and threading the boys through winding paths in the same pointless loop since yesterday.  “Greg is <i>tired,</i> he needs something to <i>eat,</i> he can’t handle another meandering road to nowhere.  Can we <i>please</i> try going somewhere <i>I</i> want to go now?”  </p>
<p>“I can see that Greg’s tired, but your scatterbrain will only get us more lost.”  Beatrice, garbed in feathers, portrays an unimpressed guide at the terminal thread of her patience from where she balances on a twig.  “Why don’t you <i>please</i> shut up, pay attention, and stop your whining?  If we’re going in circles, it’s only because YOU don’t know how to stay on a path!”</p>
<p>“I think Wirt should get a turn,” Greg chirps, somewhat nervous to interrupt the de facto “leaders” of their group.  He sneezes so hard his tiny body jerks and Wirt has to hold his shoulders to stop him from toppling into a puddle.</p>
<p>“See?!” the elder brother fumes.  “We shouldn’t even be traveling—his cold’s getting worse!”</p>
<p>“And whose fault would that be?” Beatrice sneers.</p>
<p>Wirt throws his hands up and his hoarse voice cracks.  “YOURS!  In fact—<i>in fact—</i>” he jabs an accusing finger at her, posture rigid “—I think you’re leading us nowhere on PURPOSE!”</p>
<p>(Lorna gasps from her spectating seat on a broad-branched pine, too far in the distance for the boys to spot her.  It won’t be good if their innocent lambs uncover the plot this early in the game.)</p>
<p>Beatrice—flustered—dives at him from where she hovers in front of his face to strike him with her wings.  “How <i>dare</i> you!  After everything I’ve done to help you losers, you’re going to sit there and accuse me of the opposite?  Talk about <i>freaking</i> ungrateful!  If you don’t want to find the black train, Wirt, I’ll gladly dump you <i>both</i> here and be on my merry way!”</p>
<p>Wirt bats her away as if Beatrice is a gnat.  “And which ‘merry way’ might that be?  I thought birds were supposed to have a superior sense of direction?” Wirt fires back.</p>
<p>“I’m not a real BIRD!” Beatrice shrieks at him, playing the “wretched cursed lass” card for the hundredth time. </p>
<p>“Well I wish you WERE, so I’d have something better to listen to than your NAGGING HARPY SCREECHING!”  The boy shouts.  He might be crying; he scrubs his forearm across his streaming eyes to brush off tears or rain and blusters out a sigh that drags his posture toward the mire.  “I can’t t-take any more of this…”</p>
<p>Greg tugs his older sibling’s hand, upset.  “Wirt?”</p>
<p>Beatrice alights on a dripping cedar limb right above Wirt’s head, fumbling to seize back control of the deteriorating situation.  “And <i>I</i> can’t take any more of your whining.  Pick your brother up like a man and let’s get moving.”</p>
<p>Wirt doesn’t budge.  Water drizzles off his moppy hair and saturates his cloak so that it hangs from him like sheet metal.  “No,” he says lifelessly.  “I’ll… I'll going to go see if I can find some food for Greg.”  And he turns and walks away from Beatrice and his brother and heads into the silver-washed trees by himself.</p>
<p>Time for Lorna to make her entrance.</p>
<p>She cannot take the shape of a bird like Beatrice, but the Nightjar is no less suited to her woodland kingdom.  She is accustomed to traveling silently, under the cover of darkness, and stalks the lanky boy step for step while he tries to find his thoughts in the stormy gloom.</p>
<p>When she draws close enough that her stretched fingers might graze the nape of his neck, she notes that he <i>is</i> crying… restrained kicked-puppy hiccups that tell her that he’s used to hiding when he is truly hurt.  Disappointment clouds Lorna’s mood.  <i>Damn.</i>  She’d wanted this to be more fun, but if the older boy practically serves his soul up on a <i>platter</i> to the Beast then there won’t be much else for her or Beatrice to do…</p>
<p>“I’m a bad brother,” she catches him lamenting over a pitiful sniffle.  “Greg… sorry…”</p>
<p>Ah—so he weeps for his brother, but not himself.  And here Lorna had thought him selfish ever since she'd first glimpsed him whining about having to take care of his sibling.  Her heart thaws.  Perhaps there are the makings of a hero in this Pilgrim, after all.</p>
<p>"What's wrong, my turtle?" Lorna calls in her gentlest voice.  Wirt whirls around in the downpour, eyes red-rimmed and fear-wide.  He's so cute she wants to sweep him into her aunties cottage like a stray puppy and let him dry off by the hearth.  "Why are you all alone?"</p>
<p>"I'm… I'm not…"  Adorable, how his voice breaks as he struggles to tamp down the sorrow that Beatrice brought out.  </p>
<p>The Nightjar shows him a grin that weakens the knees of most prey.  "Do not fret, traveler.  I mean you no harm.  Let's step out of this rain for a spell… you look as if you need a listening ear and a roof over your head."</p>
<p>He wants to trust her.  His throat tightens with how much he wants to trust her.  Yet the Bluebird has done her job well to encourage his suspicion of strangers, and he shakes his head sheepishly, apologetically, glancing to the direction where he'd left his sibling.  "Not without my family… and my friend.  If you know where there's shelter, I need to bring them with me."</p>
<p>"Friend?"  He would bring Beatrice with him, even after their fight?</p>
<p>"Yeah.  I can't just abandon my party," he answers.  Lorna swoons.  <i>Aww… he's loyal.  Didn't know that.</i>  "Plus… you're a stranger.  I had to save my brother from a banshee in an abandoned church earlier this week, so…"  He realizes how dangerous Lorna <i>could</i> be and he blushes and looks at his shoelaces.  "Sorry.  I'm sure you're a nice person, but… if you're not going to murder me, they need taken care of too."</p>
<p>“I’ve only room for one guest,” Lorna starts carefully, swallowing down a hunger pang.  If he accepts, the brothers will be separated… she and Beatrice could bring them down sooner, since the younger one’s sunny disposition would fade rapidly after his hero disappeared.  This is the opportunity the Birds had been laboring toward.  </p>
<p>Wirt peers back at her sadly.  “I can’t accept.  Sorry.”</p>
<p>She could injure him.  Lorna could break one of his legs like a toothpick and leave him here until he gave up… but then his Edelwood would be poorly and oil-deficient.  The more grand the gap between hope and despair, the better the product for her Lord’s lantern.  Greg would fall magnificently after his brother’s death… but Lorna would so prefer to harvest <i>both</i> lads at their peak.  She’d hate herself if she rushed things and missed out on seeing what a gorgeous tree Wirt would become.</p>
<p>Her grin reveals too many of her teeth, yet the Nightjar restrains herself.  “Very well, Pilgrim.  If you should change your mind, all you need do is call my name.”  She leans to whisper in one of his ears; he quivers at her proximity and the honeyed drawl of her name.  Then he bids her a timid adieu… and hikes toward where he left Beatrice and his brother, perturbed but not broken.</p>
<p>He apologizes to both Beatrice and Greg when he reunites with them.  Lorna isn’t sure who’s more surprised: herself, or the Bluebird.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵</p>
</div>Beatrice leads them close to the house of a witch, who immediately kidnaps Greg to turn him into a donkey.  Wirt saves the day just in time despite Beatrice halfheartedly arguing that she saw Greg go <i>that</i> way, toward the blueberry bushes, because of course Greg never listens and Wirt is too much of a wimp for Greg to respect him.  Lorna catches herself cheering when Wirt sprints from the witch’s cottage with Greg on his back—spells whizzing at him like fireworks as he zig-zags into the woods.<p>Lorna approaches Greg a different afternoon when the little boy toddles off to find his frog, which Lorna has momentarily borrowed.  He follows her as far as a dew-dipped strawberry patch which he must <i>not</i> share with Wirt… but Greg resists hoarding the berries for himself and runs off to tell Beatrice and his brother.  Obviously, the berries have rotted to slime when he pulls Wirt along with him to eat; a frustrated Pilgrim bites back his rebuke and muffles the growl in his stomach and orders Greg to just go to bed, already.</p>
<p>Beatrice convinces a Barghest to chase Wirt and Greg through a cemetery on another night.  Wirt suffers what might be a heart attack; Greg remembers the single snack left in his pocket, and feeds it to the slavering black dog.  Wirt is proud of Greg saving them from a terrible mauling… until Beatrice subtly points out that Greg never mentioned keeping food a secret.  The older brother goes silent, anger building in his stiff jaw.  Edelwood roots lap at his heels.</p>
<p>The Bluebird is doing her best to test them, tire them.  She and Wirt bicker like a married couple.  The boys have outlasted the Birds’ past victim by more than a week.</p>
<p>Lorna has an epiphany one foggy midnight while she and Beatrice are cuddled together on a picnic blanket they’d retrieved from a wandering young woman four months ago; the once cherry-red and white plaid has dulled to brick and eggshell by days spent rolled out on dirt and fallen leaves, but it smells like them, and it’s easier to roll out a blanket to sleep on than it is to lug around the parts of a tent.  </p>
<p>Beatrice is curled around Lorna like a big cat, hugging the Nightjar as if she’s a stuffed animal.  (“To keep warm,” the Bluebird always adorably evades.)  “What are you grinning about, maneater?”</p>
<p>“Nothing,” Lorna says lowly, ordering her curved lips to flatline.  “But…”</p>
<p>“But?”  A groggy growl into Lorna’s shoulder.  </p>
<p>“I like them,” admits the Nightjar wistfully.  “I really do.  I sort of want them to beat us, even though Beast won’t be happy.”</p>
<p>Beatrice makes a noncommittal grunt and adjusts herself cozily about her partner, avaricious in her quest for body heat.  She doesn’t answer for several stanzas of late autumn cricket-chirps.  “...I sort of like them too.  <i>Sort of.</i>  Kinda like stubborn sheep you want to hate but can’t help but respect, ya know?”</p>
<p>“I knew it,” giggles Lorna.  “So, what shall we do?”</p>
<p>“What d’you mean, ‘what shall we do?’  They’re <i>lost.</i>  They have nowhere to go.  They don’t even remember how they got here, or where their home is.  We haven’t had such easy targets for years.  You build them up, I tear them down.”  Beatrice shrugs.  She isn’t doing a very good job of hiding how taut her inner conflict is strung—Lorna can tell by the way her darling Bluebird shovels out each word as if she’s hefting boulders.  “Whether or not they win is on <i>them</i>—It’s not our problem if they don’t survive.”</p>
<p>Lorna finds Beatrice’s hand on her hip and squeezes it.  “Then I’ll do my best to encourage them,” she tells Beatrice ardently.</p>
<p>Beatrice squeezes her back.  “And <i>I’ll</i> scream at them for being stupid.”</p>
<p>“Game on, Bluebird.”</p>
<p>“Good luck, Nightjar.”</p>
<p>They drift into a fragile sleep, attuned to the heavy-slow breathing of the unawares brothers dreaming yards away and bundled under the arching arms of a dormant honeysuckle bush.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵</p>
</div>Two seasons.  Time doesn’t pass predictably in the Unknown—some days lasting lifetimes, some fortnights passing in a blink—but the boys evade their fates through autumn and close to all of winter.  They are impressive.  No other prey has ever compared.  Lorna is so, so proud of them… and Beatrice is too, although her pride is bitter and trapped behind her teeth.<p>They stand under the criss-crossing flakes of lightly drifting snow, holding hands.  The trees are skeletal black and white-topped around them.  Sunlight hits frost and makes the world shimmer.</p>
<p>Lorna nuzzles against Beatrice’s neck with a bashful grin, loving the way Beatrice’s russet hair strokes her face like a curtain.  The Nightjar could hide for hours in this silk, breathing the smell of cinnamon and cloves and the pipesmoke Beatrice partakes in on special occasions.</p>
<p>Beatrice pecks a kiss upon her partner’s ear.  She thrills to know that a girl who sharpens her canine teeth with human finger bones melts so soft and sweet at her touch.  “I think old Beast will be pleased with this crop, don’t you?  Been a while since we planted such young blood.”</p>
<p>“Of course he’ll be pleased,” Lorna readily agrees.  She wipes a stray tear that slides unbidden down her cheek before Beatrice can see.  A fleeting shard of regret mars her features as she gazes down at the bodies half-covered in dirt; their eyes are peacefully closed, as if sleeping, with roots for a bed and soil for a blanket.  “I do feel sad when it has to be children, though… why didn’t the older one fight a bit harder?”</p>
<p>The Bluebird rolls her eyes at this old worry, resting her cheek on the part of Lorna’s hair.  It’d been an unexpected challenge to wear down the elder brother… she’d scented his insecurities like a bloodhound and exploited them ruthlessly, stripping him of both dignity and willpower the way one might shuck a rabbit of its skin.  She’d wanted him to fight harder, too.  When her prey gives up with barely more than a whimper in the end, there’s no quelling the harsh resentment that cuts through her chest.  Hadn’t <i>she</i> done what was necessary to save herself, her loved ones?  Wasn’t <i>she</i> a living reminder that you had to grab salvation by your teeth, regardless of the cost?  If the boy had wanted to live so badly, he shouldn’t have buried his hope.</p>
<p>(Beatrice doesn’t acknowledge, in this moment, that Wirt <i>had</i> fought—and admirably.  She’s already had her private cry, away from the Nightjar.  No one need know that the Bluebird mourned her prey.)</p>
<p>“You used to cry when you saw hawks snatch chicks out of nests, too,” Beatrice reminds Lorna sternly, tone rough.  “Things have to die for others to live.  The Lantern needs oil.  It’s natural.”</p>
<p>“At least they’re not in pain,” Lorna sighs, winding her arms around Beatrice’s waist.  Edelwood saplings fence the boys like bedposts, protective, and ice-glossed leaves brush against their noses and ears with soft goodnight kisses.  All their weariness has already seeped into the earth, which drinks it up as greedily as Lorna used to guzzle blood.  Their trees will grow close together—brothers in death as well as life.  </p>
<p>“Shall we take something to remember them by?” Beatrice suggests, hoping to cheer her partner up.  Lorna immediately brightens.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes—let’s!  We can add their mementos to the others in the cottage…”</p>
<p>“Next to all those bones you keep lying around?”</p>
<p>“They’re not <i>lying around</i>—they are carefully arranged!”</p>
<p>“Sure they are.”  Their flirtatious argument ends with a coy salt-flavored kiss on the lips, their faces flushed and their fingers intertwined.  Beatrice separates first; she stoops to lift the red cone hat from the elder brother’s head, inwardly amused and melancholy at the cowlick that sticks straight up from his scalp like an Edelwood leaf.  Lorna reverently removes the younger brother’s bizarre teapot chapeau, biting back an affectionate smile.  </p>
<p>The Birds wish their boys good night.  They’ve earned their peaceful rest…</p>
<p>And the BlueBird and Nightjar have earned their reputation as the Unknown’s heartless harpies.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beacember 2020 is heckin' fun!  Thank you to Tanicus (author of the action-packed Earth Angel) to making this holy week possible!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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